Stop This Train
by SometimesLifeHappens
Summary: John's life 3 years after Sherlock's death. Story told in dated oneshots and scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Stop This Train  
**_John Watson, 3 years after the death of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective_

January 4 

It's a few days after New Years'. Everyone at the station is bustling about, some discussing the information they hold in messily labeled manila file folders, some comparing resolutions. You'd think they'd grow tired of hearing impossible plans for change after the first day or so, but they're all seemingly engrossed with each others' stories and goals, and no one seems to mind the repetition.

I'm sick of it. It seems so… ordinary. So plain. So superficial.

Although maybe I shouldn't be one to talk. I haven't been interested in these kinds of things in years, the traditions and cultural must-do's. My ability to put up a front and pretend to care was greatly diminished when I was discharged, and even more so after my friend's death. Not that I would ever admit it – but it seems to be common knowledge around here. Every time a holiday rolls around and everyone else is working to meet the expectations of others, I find myself the recipient of those looks, the ones somewhere between pity, understanding, and hesitation. Everyone knows, not many are sure if they care, and no one wants to say anything to the sad little man who's best friend jumped off the deep end.

About 330 days of the year, it easy for people to go on as normal. But it's as if someone declared December as Month to Pity the Living, and didn't tell me until it was too late. And unfortunately, December sometimes runs into January, as I've found to be the case. Something about parties and socializing being good for the soul, for the healing process. I've found it does the opposite, makes me nauseous and gives me a headache. I once made the mistake of expressing this to my therapist and she diagnosed me with mild agoraphobia and tried to put me on medication. I quickly renounced my issues and had to force myself to go to every shitty office party for a month until she finally let it go.

I nudge the door to Lestrade's office open with my cane, the creaking of the door making me cringe, even against the noise behind me. The detective inspector is in the middle of a rather aggressive phone call, but he nods to invite me in anyway, holding up a finger, he'll be with me in a moment.

I walk in slowly, looking around. I've probably been in here hundreds of times but I take it all in as if it's my first time. I vaguely remember my first time in here, but back then I hadn't had the mindset to observe every little detail. No one had been there to tell me to. Now, though, I do. I take in all the details everywhere, because he trained me to. Unlike then, however, there's no one here to ask me what I see, what it all means. There's no one here to tell me I need to look harder, that I'm missing something. Or to give me that little crooked grin I'd come to know as mine when I catch something he didn't. That pride.

If I close my eyes, I can still see it.

Lestrade's voice brings me back to the present, and as much as I hate to even think it, it's a welcome distraction from my train of thought. Thinking about him always brings an ache to my gut. The man wants to know what I've found on our case, and I tell him. It's a run of the mill murder with an angry ex wife and a cheating ex husband. I don't even know why they called me in on this, but I let them. It's better than sitting alone in 221B with Mrs. Hudson offering me tea every five minutes.

Lestrade's still talking to me, and I realize I haven't been listening to a word he's said. Suddenly feeling bad, I try to catch up with him but missing half of the monologue is making it difficult. So I shake my head, wave for him to pause, and ask him to repeat the introduction to whatever he's telling me now. He nods and starts again, unphased by my incompetence. Most people would've been offended, would've sighed, irritated, cast me a disapproving look and wondered why I even tried. But no, not Lestrade. I thought I understood it at first, Sherlock was his friend, too, despite how I know Sherlock would deny it if he heard me say it aloud. "I don't have friends, John," he would say. Actually, he did say it, and I remember his apology as if it were yesterday. I took it for granted at the time.

I don't take things for granted anymore. I can't.

Anyway, later, when everyone else's mourning turned into pity for me, the broken sidekick, Lestrade seemed to still be in the same boat as I. Except there was something different. Where I missed my friend, where I miss my friend, Lestrade mourns his death. His suicide. I fully believe he blames himself, and to be honest, for a while I blamed him, too. But I stopped when I realized I, we, had no one to blame but Sherlock himself. And even that faded as time passed. But I never told Lestrade these things. He knows I don't find him at fault, and I know that this knowledge does nothing to appease him.

He's explaining their part of murder to me. It's easy, I know before he's halfway through that the ex wife did it. He's pretty sure of it, too, I can tell. This is happening a lot lately, they don't always need me, but they call me in anyway. I think I'm less irritating than Sherlock was, I can come into the office without making it known to everyone who's sleeping with who just for the fun of it, so they're more willing to invite me to assist with cases. It's also probably to make me feel useful, but I don't mind. It helps.

I start what could be a simple response, "the wife", with some evidence, explaining an airtight conclusion he can easily paraphrase for the paperwork, and I give him some excuses I expect her to use, explain why she was definitely not drugged and definitely not in an altered state of mental well-being. Simple. Standard. Mechanical.

I stand up, leaning heavily on the wooden stick by my side, preparing to leave. Lestrade stands, too, moving around the desk to guide me to the door. He pulls it open, and as I cross the threshold, he grabs my shoulder, turning me slightly towards him.

"Take care of yourself, John."

I sigh. "I know."


	2. Chapter 2

January 6

It's late, dark outside. Puddles slosh against the wheels of the vehicle I'm in, though I don't see anything coming from the sky. Weather's been gloomy lately, though it may be more surprising if it wasn't. It's almost as if the skies can tell what time of year it is for me.

* * *

I used to believe in a God. During the war, it was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. The idea that I was here for a reason, and that my reason may well be to defend my country. I didn't really believe the defending my country reason, actually, but that was what was drilled into us, and that was my only solace in the bleakest of times. I lost a little faith when I came home, but I think a part of me wanted to believe, wanted to hope.

Honestly, I don't really know what I was hoping for. Someone out there to push me in the right direction? Or someone to mourn with me every time I went in the wrong one?

I saw that glimmer of hope when I met Sherlock. Those were the best times of my life. And it was easy for me to believe it wasn't coincidence that just when I was seeing my purpose fading, just when I didn't feel the need to continue past the lull of everyday routines, I found something fantastic. Something worth getting out of bed in the morning. One really annoying, probably dangerous, a little insane, definitely fantastic reason to get out of bed in the morning.

But now, I would be more disappointed if there was a God than if there wasn't. That brief time with Sherlock, was that a blessing or some sick, cruel joke? A way to pull the rug out from under me again? To give me joy and adventure and just steal it all away? Or was it a test? Should I have known better, should I have seen this coming? Should I have walked out of that lab the minute I heard his name? Or should I have waited, given him a chance, then turned and run after that first night?

If there is a God, he's put me through more hell then a man such as I deserve. And if there is not, then I must accept that this is something I must get through. That this was under my control, and I'm the one who messed up, I'm the one who did something wrong along the line.

And, for some strange reason, I prefer the latter.

Because this brings me to the idea of belief. If there is a God, then how can I call myself a believer? Doesn't belief imply some sort of respect, of acceptance? Doesn't belief say that I have expectations, hopes, dreams, that this ethereal being will have mercy on me and guide me away from perdition? If this is the case, then "believer" is not a title I could wear with an ounce of pride. If anything, I feel I've only been pulled deeper into this living perdition then anyone should be.

* * *

My groceries rattle on the seat beside me as the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of 221B. I pass a wad of cash to the front seat, not even having to look at the meter to know how much I owe. I try not to think about how many times I've taken this route.

As I walk up to the door and stick my key in the lock, I pause. I hold my hand out, and a fat, white, snowflake lands in the middle of my hand. My eyes drift towards the grey sky above, blinking the precipitation away from my eyes.

I used to believe a God influenced the weather. Now all I see is emptiness.


	3. Chapter 3

January 8

This morning, I decided a walk might be a good idea. Fresh air, you know. The grocery store is within walking distance, Mrs. Hudson is running low on her favorite tea, and my milk is about two weeks expired. It gives me a destination, somewhere to end up when I tire of wandering, and it'll give me a reason to come home when it's time.

The sun's a little brighter today than it's been recently, and I can't decide whether I like it or not. If I were thinking about Sherlock at the moment, I would be thinking that today sure feels a lot like the day I met him. If I were thinking about Sherlock, I would notice that I just passed the bench I sat down in with my friend that morning, I would remember the conversation that led me to 221B. If I wanted to think about Sherlock, I would sit for a moment, just close my eyes and remember.

But I don't. I'm not thinking about Sherlock, and I don't want to. So I keep walking.

The easiest route for me to take would involve passing The Building. But I haven't walked down that street in years. For a few weeks after it happened, I would just stand there, looking up. I never went up to the roof. I never went in the building – to this day I have to use the back entrance. I would just stand there and look up, trying to imagine what he saw without really wanting to see it. Trying to imagine what he was thinking when he threw himself off of the building. Even though a part of me knows I don't have to imagine what he was thinking, because I guess he told me. But I sometimes would wonder if there was something he wasn't telling me. I'll never know, but wondering gave me something to do with my thoughts. At the time I could convince myself it was constructive.

And then one day I realized that the only thing Sherlock saw when he jumped off that building was a slab of concrete rushing towards him. There was no epiphany. No bright light, no comfort, no finality. One minute there was life, and then there wasn't. I went back to 221B, threw up a few times, and never went back.

I haven't walked down that street in years. So today, I don't.

When I get to the store, the flourecents are too bright. I never particularly liked these kinds of stores, I usually prefer the small shops in my neighborhood, but they don't carry my brand of milk (it was something I'd grown accustomed to through Sherlock's persistence, not that I'm thinking about that). They're too big, too many people are mulling about making too much noise. It's a miracle I can remember how to find anything, and even that is deemed useless when I get to the dairy aisle and find out that the dairy aisle has been relocated halfway across the store.

I sigh, giving the manager an irritated look, before turning around to go back where I came from. Apparently I just hadn't been paying attention to all of the signs, he jokes behind my back, but I don't find it funny. He's not trying to be rude, I know, but it bothers me anyway. The idea of missing the signs hits too close to home. I don't reply.

The milk finds its way into my basket, and the tea follows shortly. I stand there a moment, trying to decide if I need anything else. I don't think about going to the vinegar aisle, or texting Sherlock to see if he needs something for one of his experiments. I don't look at a box of some strange salt that doesn't necessarily look safe for consumption and wonder if he'd like to use it for preserving his eyeball collection. I don't try to think of a way to disguise my gift, unwilling to admit my fondness for his… projects. I just keep walking, picking up an apple on my way to the register.

The only lanes open are self-serve, and I take a moment to decide whether it's really worth waiting in line or taking the exact same amount of time to figure out how to work those damn machines. I decide to go with the self-service because I'd rather waste time using my hands than just standing around.

Once I realize my mistake, it's too late. The machine's beeping at me, and I've already swiped my credit card. And if I were thinking about Sherlock, this would be sickeningly familiar. If I were thinking about Sherlock, I would be remembering why I usually try to avoid self-service registers. If I were thinking about Sherlock, I would remember the first time he sent me to get his groceries. I could be remembering the look on his face when he asked, "You had a row with a machine?". I might remember the first time I saw that small smile on his face, the one that he thought no one else could see, the one that only lit up the one side of his face.

But I'm not thinking about Sherlock. So I ask for help. A different staff member punches in a code, I swipe my card again, and I'm on my way home.

I walk a little faster this time.  
I don't look into the living room when I walk into 221B.  
I don't wish someone was there to ask what took me so long.

And I absolutely, positively do _not _think about Sherlock.


End file.
